


you can have it all

by goneawayblues



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: And Olivia is Hot as Hell, F/M, Mutual Pining, Rafael is an Idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-03 16:50:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17881559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goneawayblues/pseuds/goneawayblues
Summary: No one, as of yet, has written a complete history of Olivia Benson.In which Barba pines, Benson puts on her best dress, and Carisi and Rollins watch from the sidelines with popcorn. Post 'The Undiscovered Country' fix-it fic.





	1. one

Rafael Barba is a man frightened of many things. He is shaken by innumerable possibilities; those usually created out of theoretical anxiety, often unsubstantiated, but nonetheless hinted at, by recent historical precedent.

He is, and always will be, a voracious reader -- of books, of people. It's the advantage that first pushed him to the front of his classes, allowing constant consumption of information far beyond his immediate circumstances. College level at fifth grade, and Ivy League bound by high school.

As such, he is expressly aware of scenarios in which the play goes wrong. Textbooks are riddled with then-unknowable missteps, each linked to a particularly nasty bomb. But documented history offers at least a glimpse into now avoidable errors, promising a clearer path if one knows how to parse the signs, and predict, as best one can, the unpredictable.

No one, as of yet, has written a complete history of Olivia Benson.

They will, of course. In time, an eager young biographer will gather the cold cases, the hard-fought triumphs, and the even harder-wrought tragedies. The psychological profile of the Lieutenant and her assailants will certainly be scrutinized, and woven into a larger analytical framework of torture which created the flawed, determined hero. There is no guarantee on tone, but Rafael predicts a mixture of admiration and horrified, obsessive fascination which so often accompanies the details of formative artists' origins.

Oh, and her romances. Rafael scoffs at the lurid detail with which biographers so often recount (and obviously supplement) their subjects' personal relationships -- especially the peaks and valleys. Sometimes only the peaks to emphasize the far more spectacular crash and burn. 

But the maybes -- those are the worst.

Will be the worst, he means. Surely, Olivia's history will fall into the same editor-urged trap as any other opportunistic journalist's masterpiece. She'll be defaced by will-they-won't-theys which propose yearnings from her first partner to her last ADA, and expose every purported hint of intimacy in between. 

Therein lies the problem. Loathe as Rafael is to pick up a biography on someone he knows, someone he considers a friend, a confidante, he could really use a definitive ending. Not in the sense of morbidity, of course -- the very thought wrenches Rafael's heart into his stomach. But selfishly, peevishly, he wants to know the fate of that promised squabbling when the two of them are well into senility. He wants to know if those exchanges of reassuring touches, and those squeezes of his shoulder when he hasn't done nearly enough, but has spent all he owns, will someday make a welcome return. 

Most importantly, and with his recent inability to find the right balance of their non-working relationship, he needs to know if he'll be a chapter, or a footnote. He hates that he is so damn frightened of the uncertainty.

Rafael is at the start of questioning his sudden, overwhelming hatred for biographers when there's a knock on the door of the office.

He hasn't quite come to calling it his office yet -- the single steel bookcase left by a predecessor only carries the bare minimum of his most essential library. The space itself is cramped, and he keeps meaning to maneuver the desk out of the tight corner where it currently resides.There's no decanter, no glasses in sight (NYU Law does not have a zero tolerance policy for professors, but he's hyper aware of stories of misconduct, and wants no association so early in his teaching career). And the only thing separating him from any of his constituents (students, he reminds himself) or the public in general is a haphazard ID check in the lobby, and a frosted glass door that has been closed for the duration of two weeks, despite an open-door policy espoused by the Dean. 

He glances at the small, tinnily ticking analog clock on the desk. He’s mostly been using it as a paperweight, but it’s helpful, especially because he hasn’t found the time (ha) to hang a proper wall clock. 

5:32pm. Half an hour past this semester’s office hours. On a Friday, no less. 

"Come in," he calls, preparing himself for a polite, but firm explanation that though he is in the office, he is closed for business, and would they please e-mail him to make an appointment if his clearly defined walk-in period was too difficult to work within. 

Admittedly, Rafael is new to this whole purposeful role model position, and not without many, many reservations. He wants to be approachable, to a point, but mentorship boundaries are so much more permeable if breached early, and he has strict, self-imposed orders to build 'em intimidatingly high. He positions himself to stare at his datebook, picking up a highlighter and furrowing his brow to heighten the sense of unwanted interruption. 

“Hello, Professor.”

All performance falls away for the two women behind the door. 

“Lieutenant Benson,” he answers in the formal automatically, unable to keep the smile off his face. “Detective Rollins.”

“Barba, you are looking like a real academic,” Amanda crows, clearly fascinated by his new digs. 

She looks so at home next to Olivia, and more than a little happy to indulge in the nostalgia of their joint company. The sight of the two of them on the threshold, their hips bumping opposite sides of the doorway, and their heads subconsciously inclined toward each other, feels like a Liebovitz portrait. Power, ease, and style; three words Rafael considers lending to this phantom biographer. 

Olivia’s arms cross, and the beginnings of one of those soft, genuine smiles threatens to light her face. She’s wearing her badge and gun on her hip, and an unconscionably spotless white blazer. As a man predisposed to parsing appearance, Rafael has mused over the evolution of Olivia’s clothing more than once. Sometimes, the obvious quality of her blazers, her classically stylish, durable coats, and her tailored slacks, gives the impression that she’s a composed, capable woman, but not nearly as ready to go to the mat as a woman who’s survived two decades of unimaginable personal and professional trauma. 

Anyone who works with her has been disarmed by that femininity once, but it’s not a lesson one soon forgets. Whatever it is on Olivia’s part -- conscious tactic or admirable, less politically-motivated embrace of personal fashion -- the poor, misguided schmuck usually ends up on the floor, so to speak. Now that he’s several years recovered from his own mistaken perception, Rafael is always happy to watch others take the bait. There is something so satisfying about letting someone underestimate Olivia right up until the moment she turns the tables. 

"You two are on duty? What brings you to my neck of the woods?" Rafael congratulates himself on the pleasantly surprised, calm delivery as he pulls himself out of about a million details of Olivia. He hasn’t seen either of them since the beginning of the semester, and their standing in the doorway of an office - any office - throws a little longing his way. 

He stands to greet them, hugging Amanda, then Olivia briefly. Usually, they reserve embraces for grief, but the occasion, and lack of his usual professional space, seems to encourage more than a handshake.

If he had shaken Amanda's hand he might not have asked the question, for as he steps back she lifts her right arm, twisting her wrist so that the thin, intertwining silver bands on her ring finger catch the fluorescent overhead light. 

"Just making a house call. We were sorta in the neighborhood," Amanda grins. "And I had a little something to invite you to." 

Automatically, Rafael takes her hand in both of his. The ring lies perfectly on Amanda’s skin, warm and delicate and studded with three small diamonds. Nothing too flashy, and certainly personalized. 

“You’re kidding,” he laughs out loud, but it couldn’t be mistaken for malice. Not when he can feel another laugh bubbling in his throat, and when he looks up, Amanda’s eyes are shining, and she’s shaking her head with a giddiness he’s only ever seen in the earliest days of knowing her. He backtracks. “Congratulations, Amanda. But who? When? I haven’t been gone that long, have I?”

Has he?

“Four months, Rafael,” Olivia says softly. He spares a look at her -- she hasn’t moved from her spot against the door. Seeing him in an office must rile up something inscrutable for her, too. Or not; he could be projecting again. 

“Four months,” he concedes. Four months without assigned casework. Four months of reshuffling through every decision he’s ever made. Four months of interviews, then contract negotiation, and forcing himself to flip past CNN for fear of watching former colleagues on the steps of the court house. He turns back to Rollins. “Tell me Carisi didn’t worm his way into your heart.”

He’s joking, of course, but he half hopes it’s true.

“No,” Amanda says, allowing him to turn her palm over in his, admiring the ring along with him. “No one you know, thank God. I’ve learned my lesson three times over.”

Rafael snorts, dropping her hand. Amanda steps to the corner of his desk, ignoring his small, indignant protest as she pushes aside his datebook and legal pads to park her butt. He refrains from a sigh, instead asking what really matters.

“And he’s worthy?” The question is for Olivia. 

“Well, he’s just about as pretty as they come, so that’s gotta be worth something,” Amanda says. Her tone grows warm as she catches the trajectory of Rafael’s gaze. “He’s sincere. Compassionate. Earnest. Did I mention he’s hot? You might hate him.”

Sounds an awful lot like Carisi, Rafael thinks. 

“Do I get a name for this mystery Prince Charming?” 

“Robert,” Amanda says, and the care in her voice tells him everything. “But I can do you one better. I want you to meet him.”

Olivia steps forward to meet Amanda now, clasping her shoulder. Amanda practically glows under Olivia’s pride. 

“Squad’s throwing her a little engagement party tonight. Nothing fancy, but we’d love you to come.” 

“Actually, I’m throwing myself the party, and roped them all into bringing food. Robert’ll stop by, at some point.” Amanda leans in conspiratorially. “You don’t even have to bring anything. A little last minute, I know, but carpe diem.” 

“Noctem,” he says, even as he knows exactly what Amanda means. Might as well celebrate the good things as frequently as possible. One never knows when the phone will call one away to some crisis or another. Opportunities, promises, like engagement -- they’re rich, and rare, and Rafael is overwhelmed with an urge to learn everything about the man who is affording this happiness. “Of course. I can’t wait.”

“Won’t have to wait long! Swing by mine after 8,” Amanda says, pushing herself from the desk. “Speaking of which, we gotta go if I’m going to clean up in time. You can tell us what you’ve been doing, what you’ve been learning over here with all these big brains. I’m sure Carisi’ll be dying to hear all about it.” 

“Rollins. Congratulations.”

“You already said that, “ Amanda says, but hugs him again anyway before she heads to the door.

“It bears repeating,” he says, mentally scanning a rolodex of any quick dishes he can manage in under two hours. At the very least, he can probably grab hamantaschen from the perpetually open Hungarian bakery around the corner from his apartment building, though he’s not sure how appropriate Passover cookies are for an engagement potluck. Is Robert Christian? Atheist? He doesn’t even know if Rollins subscribes to any mainstream theology. 

Before he can define the religious implications of various pastries, Olivia is brushing past him as well. 

“Noah will be there, too. He misses you,” she says. “Fin, Carisi -- everyone does.” 

Guilt springs sudden and gnarled in his chest. He misses Noah and Olivia intensely sometimes, but his visiting habits don’t match.

Even though he knows he has a standing invitation, Rafael is reluctant to disturb any peace. He’s dropped by once or twice since his discharge, but he prefers to allow them refuge, and his own energy over the past few months has been too chaotic to bring into the mix for more than a brief hello, and a quick story or game with Noah before he pretends to have an exceptionally early morning. They’re not perfect; he knows no family is, but the home Olivia has created as a single parent is pretty damn close to his childhood fantasy. Freudian as it is, he would hate to see that shattered, much less be a contributing factor of unrest. 

Olivia squeezes his forearm in a brief goodbye, and Rafael puts his hand over hers before she can take it back. She allows his hand to stop her, and she waits for some show of eloquence, 

Whatever environmental factors have set his worries to spin in the direction of historiography now prompt him to look Olivia fully in the eyes. For a charged, inexplicable moment he finds the words to tell her how desperately he doesn’t want to be a footnote, and that if he is he knows it’s by his own hand. Rafael also knows he can’t bring himself to burden her with some sort of monumental personal epiphany in this half-finished, impromptu setting. How gauche. 

“I miss everyone, too. I’ll be there early as I can,” he finally settles on. Before Noah’s bedtime. He can see Amanda watching them from the doorway, deciding whether or not she should slip away. She doesn’t have the time to choose. Olivia nods, a brief note of confusion deepening the lines around her mouth. She was expecting more, and as she pulls her hand back, Rafael chides himself for his overthought absence. 

“I’ll tell Noah. He’ll be overjoyed that Uncle Rafa’s coming.” 

Three hours to find the best words with which to start the conversation, after months of brief, purposefully superficial contact is really stretching it, he knows. But if he doesn’t push himself to at least begin a more meaningful presence in their lives at an engagement party, he’s not sure he’ll ever find a more thematically appropriate occasion. 

“Great.”

Great, he thinks, as he closes the door behind Amanda and Olivia, tonight can at least be a night of auspicious conversation among those he’s missed -- it doesn’t have to be momentous. Just an re-introduction to a minor plot. Nothing more is promised. Just an hour or two with old friends and colleagues. With Olivia. With thoughts of marriage, commitment, and happily-ever-after permeating the air. 

He looks back at his datebook, at his tiny, cheerfully ticking clock, and sighs.

Boundaries, su culo. 

 

\----------------------------

 

Olivia puts extra effort into getting ready. Kind of. 

At least three full minutes go into separating out the components of her jewelry box on her dresser to match small, gold hoops to her usual pendant necklace, and fishing out a slim gold bracelet for her right wrist. She lets it dangle from her finger before reaching for the opaque, labelless bottle of perfume that she’s pretty sure is a CK sampler from several gift seasons ago. It’s a combination of vetiver and tobacco that speaks of someone who has far more time on their hands, but Olivia is engaging in a ritual tonight, and she’d rather not ruin the sanctity by forgetting perfume. 

In addition to foundation and a brush of coral blush, she applies a dusty brown shadow before liner, smudging it out with her pinky until it's merely an accent. “No makeup” makeup might be a crock to anyone who cares to put the slightest bit of attention into observing a bare face, but shadow, black-brown liner, and mascara have certainly always had the desired focalization effect. And the creamy, red wine-hued lipstick ain’t half bad, either. 

All of this prep work -- jewelry, perfume, makeup -- goes on before she’s even picked out what she’ll wear, so when she passes the full-length mirror on her way to the closet, she snorts. Her bra is plain black cotton with a slightly crooked underwire, and her navy blue underwear are what can be most aptly described as comfortable. 

Agent Provocateur she is not. 

Not that it diminishes any of the energy she’s already expended. A potluck engagement does not demand lingerie -- nor does any event, for that matter. The care with which she’s dressing is all her own, and Olivia swallows the perpetual urge for deprecation in favor of conscious appreciation of living comfortably in her own body. 

And Rafael’s hand on hers necessitates nothing. Demands nothing. If it did, Olivia might be repulsed. Instead, she’s driven to consider care, to match his gesture with her own manifestation of gentle, open invitation. Her desire to put in extra effort isn’t meaningless, and neither was his pause, and the flare of rekindling, before speaking far less than they both wanted him to say. 

She misses him. She knows why he hasn’t been over as frequently as he could -- the assumption that he has a smaller place in her life, now. That the length of his brief, insubstantial visits are out of courtesy, and he’s making himself scarce while he feels like an intrusion. But there’s a danger with him convincing himself that his professional vicissitudes carry over into their interactions. 

Olivia can already see it happening -- how he’s withdrawn, and made their moments together more about Noah’s happiness than six years of history. It’s as if he’s hit a reset button -- after all but confessing their inextricable influences on each other’s lives, he’s backpedaled as swiftly as possible. 

But today, on his new turf, when neither of them had been fully prepared to see one another, it was far more difficult for him to hide. His hand over hers wasn’t something he had manipulated into safety. Olivia misses that most of all -- how it used to be so easy for her to draw a genuine reaction out of him. When he barely sticks around long enough to discuss anything other than his commute, and how Noah’s doing in school, it’s so much more difficult to unearth the indignant, sensitive, reactive Rafael. 

So, maybe she has to start the conversation for them. In clear, plain terms. If he declines, then they’ll have an explicit understanding of where they both stand. If he accepts….

Olivia picks out a hanger with a black dress that she hasn’t worn for any tangentially-related SVU function, smoothing it as she remembers how the vee of the neckline hits her chest. It's a long sleeve; weather appropriate with a coat, and complements her figure without an ostentatious cling. And, yes, it’s a date night dress - there’s no denying that.

Only Fin might say something, but his compliments are always out of earshot of the rest of the squad. The dress doesn't mean much without context, but as she changes the cotton bra for lace, and slips the dress over her head, Olivia feels like she's building an argument.

Not against Rafael. For him. And, as usual, it's one they could both stand to win, if he deigns to hear her out.

If not -- well. They’ll have a comfortable night celebrating someone else who has been brave enough to accept and profit from love. Amanda will show off her pretty fiance, and bring the leftovers to the precinct for the next week. Noah will see Rafael, which should be enough to satisfy him for at least a few weeks more. Olivia will accept Fin’s comment about how she’s “still got it.” And then she’ll come home, put a crashing, protesting Noah to sleep, and take off the dress.

Actually, Olivia thinks as she appreciates her reflection, maybe the dress will stay on for a few hours more. It would be a shame to let this good work go to waste.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like an engagement party to nudge these two together.

In Rafael’s defense, it takes him a few more minutes than expected to debate which sweets were casual-engagement-potluck appropriate. And then a moment more to double back home, step over the threshold, and check his hair, and his tie in the foyer. 

He arrives at Amanda’s door, a slightly greasy paper bag of assorted pastries in hand, at quarter to nine. Already, there’s music and laughter wafting from the apartment to the hallway, eliciting a real spike of excitement. He hasn’t exactly been a solitary creature -- it’s near impossible between lecture, consulting, and various faculty welcomes. But this is a chance to socialize with people who don’t require a first impression.

At least, most of whom don’t. Amanda opens the door, and promptly ushers him inside, announcing his presence to the party gathered at the kitchen counters, which, as far as Rafael can tell, includes Fin, Melinda, and a tall, Eurocentrically handsome brunette he presumes is Robert. 

“Uncle Rafa!” 

He doesn’t have a chance to greet anyone before Noah barrels into his side, nearly knocking him over.

“Whoa, buddy. You almost made me drop your cookies,” Rafael says. Noah grins up at him, and his eyes go wide at the paper bag.

“Are they for Jesse, too? And Uncle Sonny?” Noah stage-whispers. 

“If you want to share,” Rafael whispers back, knowing the Olivia-drilled answer. 

Noah nods, and composes himself in an admirable show of elementary school restrain. He walks to the couch, where Jesse is busy clambering over Carisi, and coaching him in what seems like an intricate setup of a fantasy Polly Pocket and GI Joe kingdom. 

“Uncle Rafa brought us cookies,” Noah informs them solemnly. Carisi nods back, just as solemnly, and hands a Polly Pocket to Jesse with reverence.

“Well, that’s a relief,” Carisi says. “What say you two keep Queen Coppola and King Tony on their royal duties, and I’ll make sure we all get plates, hm?” 

Noah sits down next to Jesse, who covers her doll’s ears as she leans in to speak with him. 

“Queen Coppola would like ten cookies, please,” Noah says, after a brief consultation. 

“Let’s start with four, huh, Noah?” Olivia emerges from down the hall, smiling at the scene she’s entered. She stands beside Carisi, surveying the scattered collection of toys magnanimously, and God, but Rafael needs to stop looking at her in that dress, immediately. He can almost hear the quarter roll around in his empty head. “You and Jesse can ask the royal family how they feel after that. What do you say to Uncle Rafa?” 

“Thank you!” Noah and Jesse chime together, before Jesse tugs Noah’s arm to turn him back to far more important business.

“Of course, pajaritos,” Rafael says. How could he have stayed away from this. 

“You’re a big hit, as always,” Carisi says as shakes Rafael’s hand, and puts a hand on his shoulder to steer him toward the kitchen. “You should see the kind of bureaucracy they’re putting together -- more levels to this thing than anything I came up with at that age.”

“Is this the land of pretend or the mafia? Those names are your influence, I presume,” Rafael says mildly, allowing himself to be directed. He blames that on his split thoughts, wondering if Olivia will stay with Noah and Jesse, or if she’ll join them at the counter. Wondering if Olivia has already eaten -- if she needs a drink. He doesn’t even know what others have brought, but already he feels the urge to create an excuse for individual contact. 

“Hey,” Carisi takes the bag from his hand, stopping them next to the kitchen cabinets furthest from the rest of the party. “We’ve missed ya.” 

There it is again. 

“I’m sure you have, Carisi,” Rafael says, unable to stop himself. 

Carisi smiles without reservation, then grabs a few small, pink plastic plates from the cabinet above the sink, and places them on the kitchen island. They’re dotted with cartoon flowers, and Rafael wonders just how much time Carisi spends at this apartment. 

“I know you missed me, too, Raf,” Carisi says, indicating that Rafael should help him distribute the cookies. “Why else would you take on a whole cohort of law students, huh?” 

“A good question, for once,” Rafael concedes. Carisi nods approvingly at his handiwork; the black and whites laid daintily next to the rugulach. He breaks off a piece of a poppyseed hamantaschen for himself, shrugging to Rafael.

“Gotta go tire Jesse and Noah out with all this sugar you’re giving ‘em. Rollins’ll kill you otherwise,” Carisi says around the cookie.

“Olivia too, I’m sure,” Rafael says, smiling as Carisi fusses around the plates. Noah is a monster when over-hyper, if only for an hour or so. He catches Carisi staring at him, eyebrows raised. “What?”

“Noah and Jesse get a sleepover tonight. I think it’s Rollins’ thank you to Liv for suggesting this whole thing.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, she didn’t really want to make a deal of it, but you know, I’m glad Liv pushed her. She invited everyone, made sure we were all here to support. Even got Cragen to call for a minute.” Carisi’s eyes are sharp for his next words. “Robert’s a good guy, but Rollins hasn’t always been all that open with us. I think Liv wants her to know we’ll be here for her, good times and bad. No matter what.”

Rafael swallows dryly, taken by a sudden rush of warmth toward the man. And Olivia -- always Olivia. 

Carisi fixes him with another smile, claps him on the shoulder, and lifts the plates with the aplomb of a maitre’d. Rafael grips the corner of the island as he watches Carisi offer the plates to Jesse and Noah. They’re currently showing Olivia the expanse of the Lego moat, to which she’s nodding and humming her interest. Her attention shifts to Carisi as he sits next to her on the couch and pats her thigh, brief and friendly and sharing in her happy observation of innocence. The granite bites into Rafael’s palm, and he relaxes his grip. 

 

They’ll have time to talk, Rafael tells himself. Even if it’s just before they both depart. He’ll make time to tell her how beautiful her dress is, and apologize for his absence as of late. He’ll start with that.

 

\--------------------

As it turns out, they’re kept in separate corners for most of the night, but it’s not purposeful. Rafael meets Robert, learns he’s a pediatrician -- Jesse’s primary care before he was hired at Beth Israel, and promptly called Amanda to ask her to dinner. They’re a sweet couple, poking fun at one another over small things, like Amanda’s inability to properly wield a cheese knife, and Robert’s propensity for forgetting the names of any major league athlete. But they smile at each other just a little brighter than they smile at anyone else.

Munch drops in as a surprise, and offers both congratulations and condolences for their participation in the institution of marriage, which leads into a friendly unearthing of increasingly, competitively scandalous stories from him and Fin.

Melinda makes small talk with him, which lasts for an admirable, actually interesting twenty minutes before she decides to retire for the evening, kissing Amanda on the cheek and bidding them all a fond farewell. 

It’s around this time that Rafael finds himself, Old Fashioned courtesy of Carisi in hand, idly watching Olivia. She’s on the ottoman now, relaxed but attentive, and occasionally offering suggestions when Noah asks for help with narration.

Watching Olivia as caretaker is some sort of psychosomatic therapy. It may be that Rafael is used to the flip side of that instinct -- the militant 110% she drives into every case, and the total, assertive control she often wields in order to attain the desired result. Justice, of course, is desired aim of her day job, but sometimes that drive, and Olivia’s convincing maternalism, yields terrible consequences. Sometimes it pushes the right person to say the wrong thing, and and the victim reveals themself as an accomplice in an unceasingly complex tangle of cause and effect.

This role is far more forgiving. Rafael can't imagine Olivia as better suited to any professional calling as that which she currently holds (of course, she could do anything), but the unbound care with which she watches over Noah and Jesse is a clue to what else that energy could assist. It’s a reminder that she can be guardian of things more unquestionably just than the law.

And she's currently meeting his gaze, without a smile. Shit. 

Rafael coughs on his drink. This is what he gets for waxing poetic. How long has he been staring?

"You alright there?" Carisi thumps him on his back, which doesn't help matters. He coughs again, his face heating.

"Fine, fine. Just going to visit the washroom." 

"Down the hall to your left," Amanda calls after him, as he darts past Olivia with as much dignity as possible.

In the cool of the potpourri-scented bathroom, he starts to recover a breathing pattern. He splashes water on his face and inspects himself in the mirror. 

Still there, he thinks ruefully, shaking his head at what this might possibly have changed.

There's a knock on the door.

"Occupied," he calls, taking a moment to wash and dry his hands for good measure. After a last, unnecessarily long look, he unlocks the door, and as he pulls it closed behind him, nearly runs smack into Olivia. She puts her hands on his chest to slow him, and it halts more than just his body. After a silent, gaping moment, he clears his throat. 

“Liv,” he starts to apologize, but she shakes her head. Her hands are still on his chest, and she’s looking at him with a determined thought he’s not so sure he’s ready to hear voiced, and it’s all he can do not to let his own hands circle her wrists. Or to push past her, and barrel down the hallway, toward the front door. Something. 

Finally, she breaks the stillness, and drops her hands. 

“Do me a favor?”

“Sure,” he nods. “Sure. What?”

“Take a cab back with me. To mine, or yours, but can we talk?” Olivia uses that casual, conversational tone he’s heard one hundred times at the beginning of her interrogations. No one’s been accused of anything, and he can leave (and answer) on his own free will, but Rafael knows he’d better start out on the right path.

“And this is a talk we should probably have in the comfort of our own homes, and not outside someone else’s bathroom, right?” Rafael asks, testing the waters. To his relief, Olivia smiles a little. The question is ridiculous, he’ll give her that. Then again, so is the snap of heat he feels at their proximity, now that they’ve actually managed to stand this close to one another for more than thirty seconds. He wants to lean in further, but Olivia backs to the opposite wall of the narrow hallway, putting a good three feet between them. 

“Probably. Amanda offered to take Noah for the night, and I could use a night in, with a friend. With you,” she amends. “Think we could talk?”

“Yeah, yeah, I think we could talk,” Rafael agrees. “I’ve been wanting to.” 

She doesn’t challenge him on that. It may be because her relief is palpable, and catching, but Rafael starts to wonder why he had to wait this long, why he let himself be walled up against a bathroom door, rather than the other way around. 

“Good. Did you want to stay longer?”

He shakes his head. 

“No, no. Do you?”

She shakes her head, too. He may be imagining it, but she looks like she’s using her hand on the wall in the same way he was using the kitchen island. Balance, grounding. Physical distraction from the moment at hand. He files it away. 

“I’ll just make sure Noah knows when I’m picking him up,” she says, and turns to walk past him to the living room. Rafael watches her go, collecting himself before she spins back to him, her hands steepled, and her gaze steady.

“Just to be clear, Rafael. Earlier today. I meant I missed you,” she says slowly, methodically. “Noah, and the squad, too. But I meant...” she trails off.

“I know,” he says, and with her gauging his words, waiting for any tell, he really does know. This time, he does approach her. “You can tell me more about it at my apartment.”

He swears that he sees her entire attitude shift in a matter of seconds. She cocks her head, and this time she’s sizing him up. 

“I think you’ll have something to say, too,” she says, quiet and maddeningly sure, and his breath threatens to leave him altogether. 

\-----------------------------

Olivia hopes that yellows and blues of the passing lights paint Rafael’s half-turned face into emotions far more turbulent than those he’s actually feeling in the moment. 

When he catches her looking, he smiles. 

“You missed the view?” 

Given just the slightest bit of ammo, he’s impossible. She sighs and sinks back into the seat of the cab, wanting to say she hasn’t missed his mouth. But she can’t even accede to it; she does miss the way he would push and push, until, without warning, he’d cross to her line of thinking. 

Rafael is a showman. He probably makes a great, engaging lecturer in his new position. But she’s not here as a student, so she pushes back, brushing her hair back over her shoulder, and letting her hand drift slowly, casually past her open coat, emphasizing the immodesty of her neckline. It settles in her lap, as does Rafael’s glossy gaze. 

“Did you?” 

Caught in return, he meets her eyes again, and that same urgency from his office reappears. This time, there’s no filter.

“Yes.”

\----------------------------------------

She expected his second floor walkup to be more newly renovated, but it’s painfully modest. The living space is small, almost quaint, with a good 1920s foundation of a checkered kitchen floor, and two armchairs (one deep green, the other a pale floral) facing each other in a partially separated nook, surrounded by stacks of magazines, newspapers, paperbacks. A low coffee table is the nicest piece in the open kitchen/living room -- a dark, glossy finish hidden under picture frames, and another, smaller pile of wide, Taschen-style books. 

But the light from the stain glass-base lamp (that must be an antique) is golden, and soft, and casts everything in the room into a perfect glow. 

Rafael stops behind her to help slide her coat off her shoulders, hanging it and his own on a standalone coat rack next to the door. He surveys the apartment as she does. 

“There’s no real grand tour. But it deserves one, someday,” he says fondly, leaving her to her own judgments as he shuffles around the kitchen, producing two glasses for them. “Red?”

Olivia nods, but lingers on the photographs. She’s met Lucia, of course. But there are women and men Rafael’s age, as well, and older. One recent-looking photo, in a rosy terra cotta frame, catches her eye. In a medium shot, Rafael smiles at a woman who can’t be more than a few years younger. She’s holding a toddler -- a little girl whose face is laugh-screaming in profile, as her dark hair flies into the woman’s face. 

“Estephanie. My sister,” Rafael says, bringing the glass to her. His voice turns neutral. “Half sister, on my father’s side, but we don’t split hairs.”

“And her daughter?” She accepts it. 

“Mmhm. Susana. And another one on the way, actually. I’ll see them in a few weeks, in Miami. We’ve got a faculty weekend, and I’m going to be sick,” Rafael sounds so warm toward his sister that Olivia doubts her memory for a moment, trying to pick out any mention of her. 

“You’ve never--”

“They’ve never come up,” Rafael says. “Separate, fulfilling lives, completely. The last time Estephanie visited me in New York must have been four, five years ago. Before Susana, and even before her husband, Victor. And I’m not a terrible brother -- I do visit, keep up.”

Olivia nods. 

“Didn’t say you were.”

“I haven’t been a very good friend, though,” Rafael says, wandering back to the kitchen table. “A friend would have told you he had a sister. A friend would have told you a lot more than I do.”

He turns his back to her and sets his own glass down, pondering its contents. She waits. 

“I want to be a part of your life, Olivia,” he says, returning, his eyes on her face. “I know I haven’t made the effort yet, and walking the walk is so far from what I’ve done. But I think about you, and about Noah, and about us far more than an absent friend might. I don’t want to be an absent friend, and I don’t want to be a former colleague. I want to be your friend, present tense, full stop.”

“Great.”

His speech, lit by a passionate communication, falters. 

“Great?”

“Yeah. A really nice sentiment you just delivered, there,” she says, schooling her tone into a friendly, but dispassionate delivery. 

“Oh. Um, good, glad to hear it.”

Poor Rafa. 

“You remember I said I wanted us to talk, right? Not just you.”

She almost feels guilty when his lips part in horror, his hand playing nervously on the kitchen table. 

“Right, of course.”

He’s worried now, and it plays across his lips and the furrow of his brow. He doesn’t need to be, so she comes out with it.

“I don’t want us to be former colleagues either. And I don’t think you’re an absent friend -- I think you’re struggling with your entire life being upended. Not just our relationship.” As she speaks, she walks toward the kitchen table, setting her own glass down next to his. “You’re always going to be a part of Noah’s life, but he’s got friends his own age. You don’t have to feel pressure to be his best buddy, as much as he loves you.” 

Rafael is increasingly focused on her words, nodding slightly with every sentence. 

“So you don’t want me to come visit more?”

“Of course I do,” she sighs. “And you can visit as a good, present friend, whatever you’re defining that as. I would define it as someone who knows they are always wanted, and always welcome in my home, but maybe that’s just my hope for you.” 

He nods again, and looks like he’s about to parse something further, but swallows the sentiment. 

“Is that what you wanted to talk about?” He asks instead.

Olivia breathes out slowly. Here he is. 

“I see you as more than a friend, Rafa. I want to know more about your life -- what you’re willing to share. And I want you to know that I want you. As more than a friend.”

She lets the sentence hang between them, and Rafael looks a little dumbstruck as he leans against the table. When he doesn’t look like he has any more to add, a knot begins to tie itself in her stomach.

“That’s really all I wanted to say,” she says, and can’t bring herself to turn away, though it may be the smarter option. “I’m here for you, when you want it.”

Now she does push herself off the table, wondering how on earth the evening is going to recover from that. 

“Wait. Liv.”

For the third time in a very compressed series, he calls her back before they can separate completely. He steps sideways toward her, slow and curious. 

“Are you proposing to me?"

"What?" She's thrown, sincerely. "No. That -- no."

"Oh, it's understandable. We just came from a very sweet engagement party. Boring, but sweet. Me, I'm pretty boring and sweet, myself. I would make an excellent candidate for marital bliss."

It takes her another moment, and the smile that's curling Rafael's mouth, to comprehend anything he's saying.

"You ass."

"Your ass, too, when we're married," he sing songs the word, and she smacks his arm. He cradles it back in an affected show of hurt. 

“There’s more where that came from,” she warns, laughing despite herself. “You know I didn’t deserve that.”

“No, you didn’t,” Rafael acknowledges, and though he’s closer than ever, he’s studying his shoe and smiling to himself. “Couldn’t resist.”

“You could have,” she says. But it was effective. He understood her, and in the roller coaster of the day, she’s almost grateful for his incessant need to control the tension of a room.

Side by side, their shoulders brushing, he lifts his hand to cover hers, and trains his gaze to meet her. A flush of warmth suffuses her as he laces their fingers together.

 

“I want you, too, Liv. I miss you, I want you, and if I were a stronger man, I would admit to some downright pining.”

“You’re strong enough for that,” she says. He huffs a laugh. 

“Fine. I was. I did. I pined. But,” he pauses to brush her hair behind her ear with the lightest imaginable touch, and the warmth only intensifies. “Can I stop pining now? It’s inefficient.”

“Mm, I don’t know. Pining makes you give really good speeches,” she says, even as he’s a hairsbreadth from cupping her cheek. 

She knows he must have a million more retorts springing to his tongue, but for once, he abandons speech in favor of falling into a kiss. His hand finally rests on her cheek, his nose bumps hers, and her eyes close in a full, satisfying surrender. 

Olivia can’t help a tiny sigh into his mouth when his hand cards through her hair to cup the base of her skull. 

He’s a good kisser -- not that she thought he wouldn’t be. He’s attentive, and follows her lead easily for a moment or two, but he pulls back when she loops her arms around his waist. Which is the exact opposite of the momentum she needs, and it takes her a moment to fully open her eyes. When she does, he’s staring her down, with total clarity. 

“Would you let me take care of you?” he asks, “Tonight.”

“You can try,” Olivia says, instinctively annoyed that he’s not kissing her, and that he’s asking a question so clearly based in insecurities over his absence. “But I’d rather we take care of each other.”

Rafael nods. 

“That sounds good to me.”

“I know what would sound even better.”

She kisses him this time, with every intention of excess. She knows it’s going to be good -- can feel it already building at the base of her spine -- but his low moan matching her own enthusiasm just about confirms every hope.

“Bed?”

 

“Bed.”

\----------------------------------

Olivia is gorgeous. She’s inappropriate-thoughts-at-work, especially considering her line of work, hot. She owns every possible descriptor of attraction that one person could embody, as crude as many may be. And she has a special hold on Rafael, who has so missed the intensity of those brief moments when she would test him, stare him down, convince him. Who always hated to be the first to walk away, when he wanted to tell her how insane it was that one person could contain this much focused energy and this much stature.

Rafael, who, after having been all but pulled onto his own bed and wedged between Olivia’s legs, is currently doing his best to draw increasingly uninhibited noises out of Olivia’s uncharacteristically inelegant mouth. 

He’s careful not to suck too hard under her jaw, but it’s so difficult when an increase in pressure rewards him with a prolonged, breathy moan. Her hands are everywhere, pressing into his hips, and sweeping over his back, and curling into his hair. Despite their frantic speed, they’re sure, and solid, and Rafael feels safe. Feels soothed, even as his head is spinning, careening with newly acquired knowledge.

This is what Olivia’s bare shoulder feels like - smooth and warm and strong. This is what Olivia’s exposed neck looks like when her head is turning against the pillow. This is how Olivia’s breath stutters when hands are on her hip bones. This is how Olivia’s hair falls across her face, and how she bites her lip when she’s chasing down a blissful high. 

“Rafael.” It’s a low, crackling delivery, and he ramps down the intensity of kisses on her neck, instead slowing to brush his lips against her cheek, then below her ear. 

“What do you want? What do you need?”

“Don’t slow down,” she says, halfway between a laugh and a command. “If you’re going to stop every time I say your name --”

“Oh, I -- I thought. I’m not sure what I thought --”

“Stop. Talking.”

Her hand presses at the nape of his neck, so he wises up, and dips his head to drop an open-mouthed kiss against her collarbone. Then her breast. When he adds a bite, on a whim, her hand twists up into his hair in a sharp jerk. Worried, he raises his head, and she lets out a frustrated groan before propping herself up on one elbow. She fixes him with an indeterminable look, and Rafael starts to get nervous. 

“You asked to take care of me.” 

She’s slightly out of breath, but the glint in her eyes does nothing to appease Rafael’s stomach. 

He nods, as much as he can, with her hand still gripping his hair.

“Yes. That’s what I want, but say the word. It’s whatever you need.”

She hums tunelessly, assessing. Rafael waits, barely breathing. Of course, he’ll let her go if she wants to stop -- will scramble off her so quickly he’ll probably fall off the side of the bed. It would be enough to know how fucking beautiful she is like this, her arm tight with the tension of her grip, and a small, blooming mark on her chest. 

“Listen to me.” Her tone is hard enough to bruise. “You can take care of me, but right now I know exactly what I want.”

Rafael nods again, slightly taken aback. She’s only ever spoken to him like this when she’s angry -- furious -- with him, with what she deems as some rash or callous decision. Rafael’s gaze darts away, instinctively ashamed, before she takes ahold of his chin instead, bringing him back to her. 

On closer inspection, the glint in her eyes is consuming. Rafael finds he can’t look away again, even if she let him. 

“You’re going to eat me out,” she says, and her tone is dipping darker, smoother. “And if you’re very, very good, then you’re going to fuck me. Do you understand, Rafael?”

Oh. Yes. He understands. 

“Yes,” he breathes. 

“And if I say your name, Rafael,” she stretches it out, enough for him to bask in the syllables, “that doesn’t mean stop. That means you’re on the right track.”

Her hand moves swiftly from his chin to the front of his briefs. 

“When I can’t say your name anymore?” She squeezes, and Rafael groans. Her hand is warm, and sure, and generous. It’s perfect for him. “That’s when you’re really on the right track.”

Olivia leaves his briefs and brings her hand up to his mouth, fingers playing against his lower lip before she kisses him, dragging him back on top of her. They escalate to a relentless, hungry pitch and she’s sucking and biting down on his lip, and Rafael thinks he’s about to be swallowed whole before she pulls him back by his hair again, and the butterflies in his stomach turn to a far more familiar, steady pulse of desire. 

“You think you can do that?”

He smiles, and drags his hand down her abdomen, slipping under the waistband of her underwear. She’s not soaking, but he’ll get her there. 

“I think I’m going to fuck you, Liv,” he answers. When her eyes glaze over, he knows. She rocks up against him slightly, chasing his fingers. 

He leans down to bite that spot under her collarbone once more, then proceeds to make himself, very, very good. 

 

\------------------------------

There’s a moment when Rafael looks up at her. One arm is slung over her hips, pressing her against the bed, and the other hand is pumping deep, and slow, and just canted enough that she misses him, wants more on every thrust. Her own hands alternate between digging into his shoulders, and pressing encouragements against his wrist. He licks into her, fingers and tongue combining to make her gasp. 

He looks up at her, to check in. His lips are shining, and his eyes are clouded and dreamlike, and Olivia can’t help it. 

“Beautiful,” she whispers. “God, Rafa, you’re so beautiful.”

He pauses, his cheek moving to her inner thigh. 

“You’re one to talk,” he says, his voice raspy, and deliriously trusting, and Olivia knows. That voice belongs to her, now. 

Nevertheless. 

“Hush,” she says, and even through his haze he understands, now. Sees right through her. “Compliments are for hard workers only.” 

He merely smiles, and thrusts into her a little deeper, so her veneer is once again shattered by a hasty exhalation of his name. 

\--------------------------------------

In the morning, Rafael thought he would have doubts. Questions about the state of their new chapter -- what their subheading will be. 

He doesn’t.

Olivia left him with another deep kiss, a hand at the back of his neck, and he can still feel her mouth biting his shoulder, her fingers dipping into his mouth. 

Rafael stays in bed longer than his usual routine dictates, merely staring at the ceiling and allowing himself to indulge in sense-memory replays. Then again, this isn’t a usual Saturday morning. Then again, Olivia will be back on his doorstep in a few hours, with Noah, and plans for lunch. 

It might become his usual Saturday morning. In fact, Rafael closes his eyes, giving himself fifteen more minutes of luxuriation, if feels like it already has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the responses! Hope you enjoy this chapter -- it's a little longer than I expected, but feels cathartic as hell. 
> 
> Definitely want to return to this pairing - it's easy to build off the love that's so evident. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> Wowee, first dive into this pairing (RIP).  
> Thank you so much for reading - part II (the engagement party and its aftermath) shall be posted shortly, along with a ratings bump! Would love to hear what you think. 
> 
> Olivia's dress can be found in this Letterman interview: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4D_6GudgtDY  
> Title is from You Can Have it All by Yo La Tengo.


End file.
